


You Know You're Good, Don't You?

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Brat Tamer [5]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM Scene, Bdsm etiquette, Bottom Connor, Chair Sex, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Praise Kink, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, Connor needs a lot of aftercare, Discussing emotions, Discussing fears, Discussing limits, Dom Hank Anderson, Dom/sub, EVEN MORE AFTERCARE, Feelings Realization, Graduate School, Hand Jobs, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Insecure Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Kink Negotiation, M/M, POV Hank Anderson, Post-Scene Discussions, Shower that boy with praise because he needs it, So Much Aftercare, Sort Of, Sub Drop, Top Hank Anderson, Workplace Sex, for real this time, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 02:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: This is part of a D/s series. Pay attention to the tags.Part 5.





	You Know You're Good, Don't You?

"He's cold," Anderson thinks to himself and smiles. He always appreciates when the human body reacts as he expects it to. Within minutes of bringing Connor back down from an intense release, his core temperature usually drops dramatically. Today is no exception.

As Anderson drags a heavier blanket over the initial lightweight one, Connor burrows deeper into his side, tucking his head to obscure his face. He was always affectionate afterward and a bit shy. Anderson lets him be; they're not in the moment anymore. He can afford Connor some space while remaining close.

When Connor’s trembling subsides under the weight and warmth of the added blanket, Anderson noses at his hair, “Are you thirsty?” Anderson knows he is, but Connor prefers when he asks rather than making the assumption. As predicted, Connor nods.

He’s not expecting the slight but telling sniffle that follows. Peering down surreptitiously, he’s disturbed by a tear rolling down Connor’s face. They hadn’t done anything out of the norm or new, but something was clearly distressing him.

Connor could be skittish if pressed too soon, so Anderson waits. He thumbs at the tear, an action that lets Connor know there _will_ be a discussion about it later. Palming Connor’s cheek briefly, he murmurs a reassurance as he rises from the bed.

Hands clasped behind his back, Anderson waits for the kettle to come to a boil. Connor liked simple things, and, although Anderson found it to be a bit silly, he kept the makings for hot chocolate on hand for when Connor exhibits signs of vulnerability as he is now.

When he returns with a sweet-smelling and steaming mug, Connor’s upright with his back to the headboard. He’s worrying a restraint between his fingers. Anderson frowns at it. He’d already put it away. Why had Connor gotten it back out again?

Anderson hands him the mug and waits. Connor doesn’t like to be rushed into these conversations, but sometimes he requires prompting, “Tell me what’s bothering you.” The urge to pull Connor close is overwhelming when miserable brown eyes rise up to meet his gaze.

Connor drops the restraint in his lap to accept the drink and takes a perfunctory sip of it. Anderson can read the intense lines of hesitation around Connor’s mouth. He can see Connor’s throat contract under the pressure of what is surely a sob he’s trying to choke down.

He waits. If he’s honest with himself, he’s been anticipating something like this since their affair began. He knows his tastes are intense and often too much for many would-be partners. Connor had risen to the challenge valiantly, but every man has his limits. He recognizes the expression of someone wavering on the precipice of a decision that will have significant consequences. In Anderson’s experience, it was usually a romantic partner deciding if they should stay or go. The latter most often won out and Anderson’s heart lurches at the thought of losing Connor.

Still, he won’t force him to stay if he doesn’t want to continue. The thought hurts much more than Anderson would have predicted. When had he allowed himself to grow so fond of the brat? From day one, if he was being honest. If he wasn’t so focused on what Connor had to say, the realization would disturb him much more. 

A pulse of regret throbs through Anderson’s chest at the anguish marring Connor’s voice, "I'm not...I don't have—" Connor cracks under the weight of the conversation, clearly afraid of something.

Unwilling to drag this out any longer than it needs to be, Anderson presses, "How can I help you, Connor? I don't like it when you're upset." Regardless if Connor is going to ask to break things off between them, the words remain true. He doesn’t want to be the reason Connor is hurting and he’ll do whatever he can to fix it; even if it means saying goodbye.

His words are as much a question as they are a command. Anderson can see Connor all but leap to obey, even if his teeth struggle to unclench. Soft touch, reassurance, and security were usually enough to get Connor to talk, even about things that made him uncomfortable.

Anderson's palm on his cheek seems to do the trick as he resumes speaking.

"I'm not good at this," Connor whispers, defeat clear in his tone. "I mess up constantly. The same mistakes, over and over. I disappoint y—"

"Stop," Anderson's voice is stern as anger whips through him harder and faster than any of Connor’s antics could ever produce. "Have I ever," Anderson begins, more serious than he’s ever spoken to Connor, "even once indicated that you disappoint me?"

Anderson can tell that it takes the span of four frantic heartbeats for Connor to realize his professor isn't angry with him. He's angry at himself for not recognizing how deep Connor’s insecurities could run, "You are perfect.”

Connor half hiccups and half sobs his answer, “I’m not.” He gestures pitifully at the restraint and Anderson understands. Connor hadn’t tapped that evening, but he’d needed Anderson to slow down.

Anderson often edged Connor to the brink of uncontrollable need. Sometimes, it could be too much and Connor would need him to ease up or change his approach. He was more than happy to; discovering new ways to unravel his lover was never a dull pursuit.

Connor’s dejected voice cuts into his thoughts, “I couldn’t give you what you wanted.” Realizing Connor isn’t breaking things off between them, Anderson moves to envelop his much larger hands around the slender ones clutching a mug of hot cocoa.

“Connor,” Anderson’s voice pitches soft and Connor startles at the unusual gentleness of it, “you have never once refused me a thing I’ve asked of you.” He arches an amused eyebrow before continuing, “And I ask for _a lot_.”

That earns him a slight twitch of Connor’s mouth and a fleeting half-smile. Repeating himself, he continues, “You are perfect _for me_. I don’t expect you to bend beyond your limits.”

Connor’s frown persists and he finally whispers, “There are others who can do this better—be better—for you.”

Anderson’s answer is firm and immediate, “I don’t want anyone else. I want you to be mine for as long as you want that, too.” Connor’s already watery composure dissolves at the uncharacteristically emotional confession.

Setting the mug aside, Connor pitches forward to bury his face in Anderson’s chest. Though muffled, Anderson hears every word, “I want to be yours, too.”

Once calmed, Anderson takes much more meticulous care of Connor than usual. He’s fairly certain even with this much attention, Connor will drop in the coming days. It’s not something that happens to him often, but the evening had proven more difficult for Connor than Anderson had anticipated.

He’s unsurprised two days later when Connor’s unfocused, inattentive, and in a general malaise during class. He doesn’t reprimand him as harshly as he typically would, but Connor flinches all the same. He can’t afford to behave too differently than usual. Not until Connor graduates.

Still, it hurts to see Connor recoil from him and a devious idea on how to help him sooner rather than later springs to mind, “Mr. Stern.” Connor’s eyes meet his gaze, compliant as ever if not somewhat dejected. “See me after class.”

Connor nods and Anderson continues the lesson as planned. They hadn’t risked playing in his office in a while. What he had planned shouldn’t be too loud and there were ways to remedy that if the need arose.

Connor knocked, waiting for Anderson’s command to enter. Standing before his professor, his demeanor is sullen, as if expecting a verbal dress down. If Anderson didn’t know the cause of his surliness, he’d probably be right.

As things stand, he knows that discipline isn’t remotely close to what Connor needs right now. Waving at him to come closer, Connor lets out a yelp of surprise when Anderson yanks him into his lap, pulling his back flush to his chest. He stiffens with surprise but relaxes when Anderson nips lightly at his neck.

“Problems focusing today, Connor?” He asks the question while running his palms up and down Connor’s thighs. It’s distracting and Anderson knows it. Connor lets out a frustrated huff and his head falls back onto his professor’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Connor tries to keep the whine out of his voice, but it creeps in all the same. “We talked, everything is fine, but…” he fades off and Anderson kneads at his thighs, creeping slightly higher.

“We’ve talked about this,” Anderson murmurs into Connor’s neck, enjoying a tremor that ripples through Connor at the scratch of his beard. “You know drops can happen. You also know you should call me when they do.”

He uses a gentle tone—a reminder more than a rebuke. Connor nods and exhales a contented sigh when Anderson begins rubbing circles into his inner thighs, a telling bulge beginning to tent the front of his pants.

“Here?” Connor asks, his voice heavy with desire.

“I take it you approve?” The question ends on a growl and Anderson palms Connor through his pants, underscoring his intention. Connor groans out his approval, already breathing heavier than usual.

“You’ll need to keep quiet,” Anderson says casually as if not unzipping Connor’s jeans and reaching in to palm him skin to skin. Connor says something that sounds vaguely like words of understanding as Anderson works him into full arousal.

A soft whimper rolls off Connor’s tongue and he claps a hand to his mouth in an effort to silence himself. Anderson grins at the sound, “Not even a minute in, and you’re ready to fall apart.”

A slight flush creeps up Connor’s neck in embarrassment. Anderson makes his point before Connor can overthink his words, “Why would I want anyone else when I can have this?” Connor’s body jerks in momentary surprise until lust reaches back out to consume his thoughts.

Anderson is rarely this soft with Connor, but he knows Connor’s doubts cling to him more stubbornly than mold in a two-star hotel bathroom.

“Look at you,” he croons, stroking Connor at a languid pace, peppering kisses along his neck, “trying so hard to be good for me.” Connor inhales sharply around a sound trying to work its way up his throat. Anderson knows how badly Connor craves his approval and today he’s going to get it in spades.

“You know you’re good, don’t you Connor?” Connor bites into the flesh of his palm to stay quiet at that, shivering as much from Anderson’s tone as he is from his hand gripping him.

“Do you think anyone else would try this hard for me? I could take you over my desk right now, and you’d keep quiet. I could work you open with my tongue, and no one in this building would be the wiser.”

Connor’s breathing comes out in frantic puffs, becoming more ragged the longer Anderson describes the various ways he could make Connor come. “You’re beautiful when you’re falling apart,” Anderson increases his grip and his pace, enjoying Connor’s desperate little thrusts in an effort to increase friction.

“You’re exquisite when all you want to do is squeal and moan beneath my touch, but you resist. For _me_.” Anderson knows he’s got Connor where he wants him, both mentally and physically. Connor’s breath hitches in warning, letting Anderson know what’ll happen if he doesn’t slacken his grip.

“You always come so nice for me, Connor,” he whispers into his ear, “Can you be good? Can you let go?” Anderson wasn’t expecting an answer, but Connor’s wild nod brings a smile to his lips. Anderson’s hand glides once then twice before Connor goes rigid against a silent scream.

Anderson works him through it until Connor starts to twitch at each pass of his palm. Soft, unidentifiable sounds filter through the fingers Connor’s still holding over his mouth as if he doesn’t trust himself to be quiet.

Anderson pulls them away and Connor twists to kiss him. Anderson chuckles, letting him have his moment. He didn’t often indulge in soft kisses, but he can if it means solidifying Connor’s positive state of mind.

Connor jolts backward abruptly, scowling. Taken aback, Anderson blurts out, “What?”

“I don’t _squeal_,” Connor mutters before hiding his face in Anderson’s neck.

“Don’t you, though?” Anderson shoots back, amusement coloring his words. Stroking at Connor’s back, he kisses his temple, “I like all the sounds you make, even if I can’t admire them at full volume here.” Slightly mollified, Connor lets go of his half-hearted objection.

“Do you still think I’d prefer another?” Anderson asks gently, seriously. Catching his tone, Connor realizes it’s not rhetorical.

“No,” he says quietly, squeezing impossibly close. His hand hesitates, pulling back a few times before finding his mettle. He strokes Anderson’s cheek, running slender fingers over his beard.

It wasn’t so much that he wasn’t allowed these intimate touches or that Anderson even had rules about it. It was much more a confidence that he could, that Anderson would want him to, and that no one else had the pleasure.

“Mine?” Connor asks barely above a whisper, the root of his fears laid bare. Connor would give Anderson anything he asked, but he didn’t just want to be consumed. He needed to know that Anderson was as much his as Connor was—

“Yours,” Anderson confirms as secure and solid in his answer as ever, halting Connor’s runaway train of thought, “if that’s what you want.” Connor’s hand drifts to Anderson’s chest, fingering at a button on his shirt.

Some of the mischievous light that had been missing over the past few days kindles back to life in Connor’s eyes. They glow with warmth and a hint of something frisky and ill-behaved, “I do…_sir_.”

“Brat,” Anderson mutters fondly. Connor hums in agreement, secure in his knowledge of his professor’s feelings.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake)


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